THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 

Sl\ 

YY\  G  b 

EH6USH 

SttiHM 


POEMS 


BY 

BE V.  WALTER  MITCHELL 


NEW  YORK: 

JOHN  P.  TROW.  PRINTER,  50  GREENE  ST., 

(BETWEEN  GRAND  AND  BROOME.) 

1860. 


PREFACE. 


«  ♦* 


The  following  Poems  were  written  at  different 
times,  and  for  different  occasions.  Some  have  been 
already  printed ;  others  see  the  light  now  for  the  first 
time.  The  object  for  which  they  are  now  printed 
is,  to  aid  the  Fair  for  the  purpose  of  furnishing  St. 
Andrewr’s  Free  Mission  Chapel,  in  the  town  of  Stam¬ 
ford  ;  and  the  excellence  of  the  cause  must  be  the 
excuse  for  all  defects  in  metre,  rhythm,  or  sentiment, 
which  critical  eyes  may  find  in  the  verses. 


Stamford,  July  19 th,  1860. 


‘Ns  %  \  ^  1-3 


THE  DUOMO  OP  MILAN. 


1851. 

On  the  Duomo  tower  of  Milan  I  stood  at  early  morn, 

As  the  mists  before  the  mountains  like  a  curtain  were 
¥  1^,  withdrawn. 

it-  Like  an  army  ranged  in  leaguer,  who  their  snowy  tents 
uprear, 

Far  ,  to  northward,  o’er  the  plain  land,  I  saw  the  Alps 
appear. 

Many  a  giant-like  pavilion,  from  whose  lofty  peak  un¬ 
roll’d, 

Cloudy  banners  in  the  dawning  flushed  to  oriflammes  of 
gold. 


High  in  front  was  Monte  Rosa — towering  on  the  western 
flank, 

Like  a  king  amid  his  comrades,  shone  the  hoar  head  of 
Mount  Blanc.  ggJQQQ 


4 


The  Jungfrau,  Monch,  and  Eiger,  with  the  Schreckhorn 
close  the  rear, 

With  the  peak  of  the  Black  Eagle,  sharp  and  shining  as 
a  spear ; 

And  between  the  massy  shadows,  far  extended  mile  on 
mile, 

The  gorges  of  the  Simplon  clove  their  terrible  defile. 

Then  I  thought  of  all  the  pageants  which  had  pass’d 
across  that  stage, 

Since  tli’  Etruscan  first  beheld  them  in  his  dim  Pelasgic 
age; 

Saw  the  Roman  northward  marching,  as  his  Empire  rose 
and  spread, 

Winning  all  the  land  from  Tiber  to  the  Adriatic’s  head — 

Saw  the  Carthaginian  phalanx  o’er  the  snow  of  St. 
Bernard 

Winding  down  to  Thrasymene,  to  the  battle  long  and  hard. 

Then  o’er  the  ancient  pavement  rang  the  measured  mar¬ 
tial  tread, 

Of  the  famous  Julian  Legions,  Labienus  at  their  head  ; 

With  the  captive  Gauls  before  them,  as  before  the  wave 
its  foam, 

So  moved  the  eldest  Csssar  on  the  Rubicon  and  Rome. 

Then,  as  sweeps  across  the  landscape  a  cloud  between  the 
sun, 

Like  the  avalanche  descending,  roll’d  the  Visigoth  and 
Hun. 


5 


Then  the  Lombard  in  his  turn,  with  the  sword  for  sceptre, 
sways, 

For  the  crown  he  bears  is  iron,  which  the  pliant  gold 
obeys  ; 

Till  anew  the  swords  of  strangers  reap  the  harvests  of 
the  plain, 

And  the  people  are  united  ’neath  the  yoke  of  Charle¬ 
ys  magne. 

Then  the  goodly  city  prosper’d ;  while  from  church  and 
cloister  dim 

Came  the  music  sweet  and  solemn  of  the  old  Ambrosian 
hymn ; 

Then  to  many  a  field  of  glory  went  the  warrior  crafts¬ 
men  forth, 

And  the  gonfalon  of  Milan  met  the  eagles  of  the  North. 

Yet  the  fates  of  battle  waver’d,  and  then  close  on  every 
side, 

The  leaguer  lines  of  Frederic  hem  the  city  far  and  wide ; 

And  the  sheath  was  flung  away,  as  the  blade  in  hate  was 
bared, 

And  the  Barbarossa  trampled  all  that  Attila  had  spared  ; 

Saw  the  city  smoke  wfith  ruin,  till  amid  the  waste  alone 

Stood  the  ancient  Church  of  Ambrose — other  relic  stands 
there  none. 

Then  once  more  it  grew  to  beauty,  from  the  ashes  of  its 
fall, 

And  the  din  of  busy  hammers  rings  within  the  city  wall  ; 

1* 


6 


Forging  steel  of  proof— the  strongest  where’er  battle’s 
press  is  hurl’d, 

Till  the  sculptur’d  mail  of  Milan  clad  the  knighthood  of 
the  world. 

The  while  within  the  convent  Leonardo  calmly  paints, 

For  a  name  in  all  the  ages — the  Last  Supper  of  the  Saints. 

Yet,  once  more  the  noise  of  battle!  — Lo!  upon  the 
mountains  high 

The  blaze  of  nightly  watch-fires  reddens  all  the  northern 
sky: 

Till  spent  with  desperate  spurring  rides  a  trooper  of  the 
guard, 

Who  the  tri-color  has  seen  on  the  Hospice  of  Bernard. 


And  ere  grew  cold  the  tidings,  once  again  the  drums  are 
heat, 

Pale  faces  line  the  rampart,  paler  faces  throng  the  street ; 

For  a  fearful  whisper  circles  that  the  fortunes  of  the  day 

Have  been  turned  upon  Marengo  by  the  life-blood  of 
Dessaix. 

Yet  now  another  standard  yonder  citadel  displays, 

And  the  war-march  of  Radetzky  drowns  the  Frenchman’s 
Marsellaise  ; 

As  the  clash  of  arms  awakes  me  from  my  dreaming  with 
a  smile, 

To  see  the  Kaisar’s  vet’rans  down  the  narrow  street  defile : 


7 


And  the  mountains  are  before  me,  whose  unchanging 
snowy  pall, 

Unlifted  and  eternal,  saw  each  empire  rise  and  fall; 

And  that  snowy  sheet  shall  waver,  and  those  silent  hills 
shall  quake, 

Ere  the  spells  of  time  be  loosened,  or  ere  Italy  awake. 

1857. 

Nay,  a  brighter  day  comes  stealing  o’er  those  peaks  of 
purest  snow, 

And  the  flash  of  hope  will  redden  in  the  murky  mists 
below  ; 

And  a  firmer  faith  shall  throb  in  the  hopeless  hearts  that 
swell, 

’Heath  the  heel  of  Austria’s  legions,  ’gainst  the  Papal 
gates  of  hell. 

Still  once  more  shall  roll  the  war-drums,  and  once  more 
the  flag  float  free, 

Blazoned  green  and  red  and  argent  with  the  people’s 
colors  three ; 

And  the  Italy  of  old  rise  to  trample  on  the  rod, 

Chanting  loud  her  pealing  anthem  for  Freedom  and  for 
God. 


1858. 

Once  more  upon  the  Duomo  in  thought  I  seem  to  stand, 
Looking  o’er  the  stirring  city,  looking  o’er  the  lovely 
land ; 


8 


Far  away  among  the  vineyards,  peering  through  them 
here  and  there, 

White-walled  campaniles  quiver  in  the  heated  summer 
air. 

Eed-tile  roofed  campaniles,  with  the  green  boughs  at  their 
base, 

Flaunt  their  free  Italian  colors  in  the  tyrant  Germans’ 

♦  face. 

There’s  a  swell  of  martial  music,  there’s  a  hum  of  chant¬ 
ing  choirs, 

And  the  bells  are  wildly  clashing  in  the  city’s  rocking 
spires. 

In  the  streets  beneath  the  troopers  ride,  with  stately  step 
and  slow; 

From  the  many-windowed  houses,  gaze  the  people  on  the 
show. 

Flowers  are  raining  from  the  house-tops,  flags  are  droop¬ 
ing  o’er  the  way, 

And  old  Milan’s  heart  is  beating  as  ne’er  yet  until  to-day. 

For  there  rides  among  the  foremost  one  Italians  know  full 
well, 

u  Viva  Ee  il  Galantuomo,  nostre  Ee  Emanuel !  ” 

And  beside,  the  Liberator ;  the  Napoleon,  mon  brave  ! 

Leading  on  his  files  of  heroes,  Chasseur,  Turco,  and 
Zouave. 


9 


They  the  men  of  red  Magenta,  Solferino’s  victors  they, 

Who  have  swept  the  hated  Austrians  from  our  fire-sides 
far  away. 

We  were  trampled,  we  were  beaten,  none  had  dared  to 
speak  a  word, 

But  the  silent  prayer  of  anguish  hath  the  God  of  battles 
y  heard. 

France  was  generous,  France  was  ready,  as  the  strong 
should  aid  the  weak, 

Now  a  smile  lights  every  eye  and  a  tear  wets  every 
cheek. 

And  our  loudest  cheers  are  given,  and  we  heap  our  fairest 
flowers 

/ 

On  the  path  of  brave  Napoleon  and  that  Hero-King  ot 
ours. 

Trail  the  double-headed  eagle  in  the  hoof-imprinted  mire, 

Wave  the  red  cross  of  Sardinia  from  the  Duomo’s  marble 
spire, 

And  from  Genoa  to  Venice,  shout  the  news  from  sea  to 
sea, 

That  Napoleon  has  come,  and  that  Italy  is  free. 


10 


EASTER  IN  ROME.— NOON. 

Ten  thousand  gather’d  in  the  mighty  space 
Before  St.  Peter’s  front  of  Travertine ! 

The  fountains  flung  their  diamonds  to  the  sun, 
Which  rayed  hot  sparkles  from  the  myriad  points 
Of  France’s  tried  and  trusty  bayonets. 

Rank  upon  rank  they  stood,  and  all  around, 

As  sheep  that  watch  the  watchful  dogs  that  guard, 
Rome’s  citizens,  Albano’s  peasants  throng’d. 

The  Contadina  show'd  her  best  attire, 

Dark  bodice,  scarlet  skirt,  and  snowy  cap, 

Folded  Madonna-wise  above  the  braids 
Of  jetty  locks  the  silver  arrow  pierced. 

Natives  of  many  lands,  the  outward  ring, 

We  gazed  upon  the  central  balcony — 

Before  us  was  St.  Peter’s. 

On  the  right 

The  mighty  masses  of  the  Vatican, 


11 


Whose  galleries  hold  the  quintessence  ol  art. 

The  gods  of  Greece  ;  the  martyr’s  rude-wrouglit  slab, 
Bearing  the  palm,  the  cross,  the  cup,  the  lamb ; 

The  tapestries,  with  Raphael’s  soul  inworked  ; 
Egyptian  monarchs,  lean-limb’d,  quaint,  and  vast ; 
The  one  Apollo  and  the  Laocoon. 

To  left,  upon  the  hill-side,  one  might  see 
^  A  ruin’d  villa’s  crumbled  walls  and  roof, 

Plough’d  by  the  shot  and  shell  of  Oudinot. 

Tall  in  the  centre  towered  the  obelisk 
Writ  with  strange  sculpture. 

Over  all  the  cross  ! 

The  Old,  the  New — the  kingdoms  of  the  Nile, 

The  evil  myths  of  idol  worshippers, 

All  bowed  beneath  the  sceptre  of  the  Christ. 

Tomb  of  St.  Peter,  Galilean  serf, 

And  fisher  of  the  Lake  Gennesareth, 

Was  that  huge  pile,  upon  whose  front  the  keys 
And  triple  crown  were  carved,  to  be  the  signs 
And  trophies  of  the  Christian  victory. 

We  gazed  upon  the  central  balcony, 

^hile  over  us,  one  sapphire,  spread  the  sky, 

Marking  high-noon  in  Rome. 

There  peal’d  a  burst 
Of  music,  brazen-tongued  and  jubilant, 

And  then  came  forth  the  peacock  fans  of  white, 

The  lofty  throne  upheld  by  acolytes, 

Whereon  stood  the  Ninth  Pius. 


12 


Then  a  hush 

Fell  on  the  vast  assembly,  as  a  cloud 
Stays  on  an  Alpine  peak  its  whirling  course, 

And  like  a  tongue  of  lightning  flash’d  a  sword, 

Quick  follow’d  by  a  crash  of  grounded  arms, 

And  all  the  serried  ranks  fell  breathlessly 
Upon  their  knees,  ten  thousand  bowed  as  one. 

Then  all  again  was  still,  as  with  wide  hands 
Uplifted,  blessing  us  the  old  man  stood. 

No  voice  but  his.  In  the  most  Highest’s  name 
He  bless’d  the  people. 

We,  too,  bared  our  heads, 
Although  we  owned  no  monstrous  chain  of  his, 

Yet  loth  to  miss  an  old  man's  blessing — his 
Who,  by  a  spotless  life  and  better  will 
Than  power,  would  gladly  bless.  Rome’s  Bishop  lie, 
Though  not  the  world’s — and  on  the  Roman  soil 
We,  too,  might  take  his  blessing. 

When  he  ceased 

The  cannon  thunder’d  from  St.  Angelo, 

And  every  bell  within  the  city  woke. 


13 


EASTER  AT  ROME.— NIGHT. 

I  came  before  St.  Peter’s  just  at  eve. 

The  colonnade  was  throng’d,  the  fountains’  rims, 

Beset  with  watchers.  By  the  obelisk, 

Whose  sculptured  granite  holds  mysterious  lore 
Long  vanish’d  from  men’s  knowledge,  were  the  guard, 
The  Third  Napoleon’s  legions. 

Far  away, 

E’en  to  St.  Angelo,  and  on  the  bridge 

The  streets  swarmed  gazers.  Up  the  Pincian  Mount 

Stood  eager  watchers,  and  no  roof  or  tower 

But  had  its  crown  of  curious  climbers  on. 

The  sun  went  down,  and  fiery  shadows  filled 
The  deep,  ineffable  Italian  sky, 

Then  darken’d  intoTwilight,  while  there  crept 
A  down  the  vast  fagade  one  thread  of  light, 

And  then  another,  till  from  eaves  to  base, 

2 


14 


Each  column,  architrave,  and  balcony, 

Was  pencilled  into  silver  shapeliness. 

Up  to  the  topmost  cross  the  lights  ascend, 

Like  pilgrim  tapers  toiling  up  a  mount, 

The  domes  were  ribb’d  with  star-streams,  and  the  front 
One  vast  inscription  traversed,  writ  in  fire. 

When  quite  the  dark  had  gather’d  there  it  stood, 

A  huge  cathedral  built  of  threaded  stars. 

Eight  strokes  were  echo’d  from  St.  Angelo, 

And  to  the  cross  aloft  there  soar’d  a  star 
That  seemed  to  break,  like  meteors,  in  flame. 

Up  to  the  cross  it  soar’d,  that  dizzy  height 
The  brain  would  totter  scaling  e’en  in  thought — 
Treading  the  track  its  desperate  bearer  climbed — 

For  he  who  bore  the  brand,  a  guilty  life, 

To  the  law  forfeit,  by  that  deed  redeemed. 

The  Pontiff’s  self  had  bless’d  him  ere  he  went, 

And  set  the  absolving  seal  upon  his  brow  : 

So  great  the  peril. 

Everywhere  there  blazed 
A  storm  of  torches,  up  and  down  the  roof, 

Huge  crescets  flared,  and  on  each  cc  j u tty,  frieze, 

And  coign  of  vantage”  hung  new  orbs  of  fire. 

The  central  dome  no  longer  kept  its  shape, 

But  to  the  eye  display’d  a  burning  crown, 

The  triple  tiar  which  the  pontiffs  wear, 

Who  sit  in  Peter’s  chair,  and  claim  the  keys, 

And  power  to  loose  and  bind  in  earth  and  heaven. 


15 


The  silver  lights  were  there,  but  seen  no  more 
So  vast  the  new  illumination  burst, 

And  night  was  day  where  that  red  radiance  feb. 

The  shepherd  on  Albano,  far  away, 

Or  herdsman  by  the  ruin’d  aqueduct, 

Driving  his  goats  belated  through  the  dusk 
Upon  the  waste  Campagna  ;  on  the  sea 
The  boatman  from  Sardinia,  bearing  up 
For  Citta  Vecchia,  caught  the  wondrous  gleam, 
And  cross’d  themselves,  and  mutter’d  Aves  fast, 
Knowing  its  meaning. 


Such  was  Easter  night. 


1 G 


GARIBALDI  IN  SICILY. 

Red  gleams  on  Monreale’s  height, 

Arm’d  men  in  cloister  cells, 

Palermo  through  the  live-long  night 
Rings  out  her  hundred  bells. 

Hope  gathers  in  her  winding  streets, 

For  life  or  death  betides 
In  what  the  whispered  word  repeats, 

That  Garibaldi  rides. 

There’s  fear  within  the  citadel, 

And  doubt  upon  the  bay ; 

And  sharply  peers  the  sentinel 
Across  the  rampart  gray. 

The  Bourbon  bands  of  hireling  hordes  * 
Scour  all  the  mountain  sides, 

Yet  cowering  shrink  from  crossing  swords 
Where  Garibaldi  rides. 


17 


Whycin  the  city  of  the  South 
Such  gladness  and  dismay  ? 

Such  watching  o’er  the  harbor’s  mouth 
The  flushing  of  the  day? 

Why  but  to  hear  his  bugle  blow, 

Who  never  foe  abides  : 

For  tyrant  now,  and  victim,  know 
That  Garibaldi  rides. 

A  thousand  men  ’gainst  thousands  ten 
Are  foremost  in  the  race. 

The  hunters  of  the  Alps  through  glen 
And  pass  urge  on  the  chase. 

Yet  not  at  chamois  fleet  they  aim 
The  rifles  by  their  sides — 

There’s  sterner  sport  and  nobler  game 
Where  Garibaldi  rides. 

And  hark  the  cry  !  44  They  come  !  they  come!  ” 
And  hark,  the  Tuscan  cheer ! 

Lips  at  the  lash  so  lately  dumb 
Are  shouting  in  the  rear. 

Though  blinding  smoke  and  grape-shot  hail 
Pour  on  the  conquering  tides  ; 

Bold  hearts  must  win,  and  right  prevail, 

Where  Garibaldi  rides. 


n 


2* 


18 


THE  CHARGE  AT  RALAKLAVA. 

Red  spur  and  loose  snaffle, 

Black  Cardigan  rides 

Roan  Rupert,  his  charger — 

White  foam  flecks  his  sides. 

Behind,  the  Six  Hundred 
Come  gallopping  fast ; 

The  peal  of  the  bugle 
Swells  out  on  the  blast. 

Before,  the  red  lightnings 
Flash  ceaselessly  forth 

From  thy  death-dealing  cannon — 

0  Czar  of  the  North ! 

Yet  faster  and  faster, 

With  sabres  swung  high, 

Sweep  on  the  Six  Hundred, 

To  conquer  and  die. 


19 


One  crash,  as  the  headmost 
The  battery  gain ; 

One  cheer,  from  the  rearmost 
Wheeled  swiftly  again. 

A  long  line  of  corpses 

Lies  heaped  on  their  track, 
The  many  went  fearless — 
Few  sadly  came  back. 


20 


THE  SOUTH  SEA  POST-OFFICE. 

The  South  Sea  whalemen  used  to  have  certain  unin¬ 
habited  islands,  where  letters  were  deposited  by  outward- 
bound  ships  for  those  already  in  those  seas.  The  place  of 
deposit  was  a  well-known  rock,  or  other  conspicuous 
landmark  on  the  beach.  Of  course  letters  may  remain 
there  for  years. 

The  cocoa  palms  rise  silently 

From  out  the  tangled  underwood, 

Where  just  a  strip  of  silver  sand 
Divides  it  from  the  mirror’d  flood. 

Far  otf  against  the  coral  wrall 

The  great  waves  thund’ring  plunge  and  roar ; 

FTo  ripple  from  the  still  lagoon 

Mimics  their  murmur  on  this  shore. 

Without,  unrest  and  tireless  strife; 

Within,  there  broods  perpetual  calm  ; 

"No  step  unquiet  of  human  life 

Disturbs  the  waste  of  vine  and  palm. 


21 


Half-hidden  by  the  clust’ring  leaves 
A  rock,  storm-fretted  into  rude 

Half-semblance  of  a  couchant  beast, 

.Juts  from  the  verdant  solitude. 

Within  its  crevice  glimmering  white, 

Or  yellow  with  the  stains  of  age, 

Fall  many  a  seal’d  and  folded  sheet:’ 

Last  year’s  was  this,  last  week’s  that  page. 

There  come  and  go  the  gliding  barks, 

A  moment  pause  with  balanced  sails ; 

Leave  here  their  treasures  to  their  fate, 

Then  onward  follow  far  the  gales. 

There  come  and  go  the  gliding  barks, 

And  pause  with  eager  fluttering  sails; 

They  search  amid  the  precious  hoards, 

And  take  or  leave,  as  chance  prevails. 

The  letters  slumber  on  the  moss, 

Unconscious  of  their  words  of  wealth ; 

Tidings  of  Love,  of  Care,  of  Joy, 

Of  Death,  or  Birth  ;  Disease  or  Health. 

Long  rays  of  light  from  distant  stars, 

Through  cycles  speed  from  sphere  to  sphere, 

Shot  to  their  goal  perchance  when  dead 
The  fading  orbs  which  wing’d  them  here. 


22 


So  these  dear  rays  of  hope  and  home, 

As  years  elapse  may  find  their  mark, 

When  he  is  changed  to  whom  they  come, 

And  all  his  fireside  lights  are  dark. 

Here  lies_the  timid  sentence  penn’d 
By  her,  the  hour  he  sailed,  a  bride  ; 

Here  wisdom  from  the  gray-liaired  sire ;  i 

Here  childhood’s  scrawl,  uncouth  and  wide ; 

For  him,  who  ’mid  the  polar  seas 

Went  down  where  high  the  ice  waves  ran  ; 

For  him,  who  exiled  walks  the  shores 
Of  summer-scented,  still  Japan. 

Yet  here,  by  better  fortunes  sped, 

Lie  pages  left  but  y ester  morn, 

Whose  bearer’s  sails  into  the  West 
Melted  with  this  departing  dawn. 

While  there,  across  the  ruddy  shield 
Of  yonder  full-orbed  rising  moon, 

The  outline  of  a  gliding  ship 

Darkens  a  moment,  fades  as  soon. 

Upon  her  deck  expectant  pace  '*• 

The  eager  watchers,  following  far 

The  column’d  track  of  moonlit  wave 
That  streams  to  yonder  sinking  star. 


23 


They  meet  not,  touching  hand  to  hand, 

With  asking  eyes  and  answering  lips ; 

They  meet  not,  though  the  bird  that  flies 
To-day  shall  circle  both  their  ships. 

Yet  each  to  each  is  dear  by  spells 

Unconscious  wrought  by  kindly  deeds ; 

Entwined  in  the  mysterious  chain 

From  one  who  writes  to  one  who  reads. 

So,  oft,  we,  sailing  on  life’s  sea, 

Let  fall  at  many  a  lonely  isle 

The  potent  spells  of  destiny, 

The  casual  word,  or  passing  smile, 

Which,  caught  by  unseen  eyes  or  ears, 

Bear  blessings  where  we  little  heed, 

Nor,  save  in  Heaven’s  haven,  we 
Know  of  what  flowers  we  sow’d  the  seed. 


24 


JS 

TACKING  SHIP  OFF  SHORE. 

The  weather  leech  of  the  topsail  shivers, 

The  bowlines  strain,  and  the  lee-shrouds  slacken ; 

The  braces  are  taut,  the  lithe  boom  quivers, 

And  the  waves  with  the  coming  squall-cloud  blacken 

Open  one  point  on  the  weather  bow 
Is  the  light-house  tall  on  Fire  Island  head ; 

There’s  a  shade  of  doubt  on  the  captain’s  brow, 

And  the  pilot  watches  the  heaving  lead. 

I  stand  at  the  wheel,  and  with  eager  eye 
To  sea  and  to  sky  and  to  shore  I  gaze, 

Till  the  muttered  order  of  u  Full  and  By  !  ” 

Is  suddenly  changed  to  “Full  for  Stays!  ” 

The  ship  bends  lower  before  the  breeze 
As  her  broadside  fair  to  the  blast  she  lays ; 

And  she  swifter  springs  to  the  rising  seas, 

As  the  pilot  calls,  “  Stand  by  for  Stays  !  ” 


25 


It  is  silence  all,  as  each  in  his  place 
With  the  gathered  coils  in  his  harden’d  hands, 

By  tack  and  bowline,  by  sheet  and  brace, 

Waiting  the  watchword,  impatient  stands. 

And  the  light  on  Fire  Island  head  draws  near, 

As  trumpet-wing’d,  the  pilot’s  shout 

From  his  post  on  the  bowsprit’s  heel  I  hear, 

With  the  welcome  call  of  “  Ready  !  About  !  ” 

No  time  to  spare!  It  is  touch  and  go. 

And  the  captain  growls,  w  Down  Helm  !  Hard  down  !” 

As  my  weight  on  the  whirling  spokes  I  throw,  [frown. 
While  heaven  grows  black  with  the  storm-cloud’s 

High  o’er  the  knight-heads  flies  the  spray, 

As  we  meet  the  shock  of  the  plunging  sea; 

And  my  shoulder  stiff  to  the  wheel  I  lay, 

As  I  answer  u  Aye,  aye,  Sir  !  H-a-a-r-d  a-lee  !  ” 

With  the  swerving  leap  of  a  startled  steed 
The  ship  flies  fast  in  the  eye  of  the  wind, 

The  dangerous  shoals  on  the  lee  recede 
And  the  headland  white  we  have  left  behind. 

The  topsails  flutter,  the  jibs  collapse, 

And  belly  and  tug  at  the  groaning  cleets, 

The  spanker  slats,  and  the  mainsail  flaps, 

And  thunders  the  order,  u  Tacks  and  Sheets  !” 

3 


26 


’Mid  the  rattle  of  blocks,  and  the  tramp  of  the  crew, 
Hisses  the  rain  of  the  rushing  squall ; 

The  sails  are  aback  from  clew  to  clew, 

And  now  is  the  moment  for  “  Mainsail  Haul!” 

And  the  heavy  yards,  like  a  baby’s  toy, 

By  fifty  strong  arms  are  swiftly  swung  ; 

She  holds  her  way,  and  I  look  with  joy 
For  the  first  white  spray  o’er  the  bulwarks  flung. 

“  Let  Go  and  Haul  !”  ’Tis  the  last  command, 

And  the  head-sails  fill  to  the  blast  once  more; 
Astern  and  to  leeward  lies  the  land, 

With  its  breakers  white  on  the  shingly  shore. 

What  matters  the  reef,  or  the  rain,  or  the  squall, 

I  steady  the  helm  for  the  open  sea  ; 

The  first  mate  clamors — w  Belay  there,  all  !” 

And  the  captain’s  breath  once  more  comes  free. 

And  so  off  shore  let  the  good  ship  fly  ; 

Little  care  I  how  the  gusts  may  blow, 

In  my  fo’castle  bunk  in  a  jacket  dry, 

Eight  bells  have  struck,  and  my  watch  is  below. 


27 


THE  RETURN  WITH  THE  PILOT* 

Against  the  south-west  breezes 
We  struggled  out  to  sea  ; 

All  day  the  long,  low  headland 
Lay  white  upon  our  lee. 

But  when  the  sun  was  setting, 

And  we  saw  to  landward  far 

The  light  of  the  distant  light-house, 
Kindling  like  a  star, 

No  more  the  good  ship  struggled, 

She  had  weather’d  the  reef  at  last, 

And  boldly  plunging  seaward, 

Drove  with  the  rushing  blast. 

But  we  in  the  pilot’s  darling, 

We  ran  before  the  gale, 

Homeward,  cheerily  homeward, 

With  the  moonlight  on  our  sail. 


28 


THE  SIGNAL. 

"White  clouds  on  the  dim  horizon  ! 

Blue  mists  on  the  shoreward  side  ! 

Close  reefed  the  pilot  schooner 
Rocks  on  the  billows  wide.] 

One  is  the  fog  of  ocean 

That  is  wandering  free  and  far  ; 

One  is  the  homestead  headland, 

Fixed  as  the  compass  star. 

His  deck  the  pilot  paces, 

And  his  glass  from  time  to  time 

Sweeps  o’er  the  flashing  white-caps, 

As  he  mutters  an  ancient  rhyme. 

He  waits  for  a  well-known  signal, 
u  White  wings  on  a  ground  of  blue';” 

’Tis  the  flag  of  the  good  ship  “  Seabird,” 
And  his  first-born  heads  her  crew. 


29 


He  looks  to  the  fading  headland, 

And  he  thinks  of  the  bonny  bride 
Who  weeps  for  her  sailor  husband — 
Weeps  by  his  own  fire  side. 

A  spar  from  the  ocean  drifting 
Catches  the  pilot’s  view, 

Twined  with  a  tattered  signal, 

u  White  wings  on  a  ground  of  blue. 


30 


THE  LUNAR  FOG-BOW  AT  MIDNIGHT. 


FEOM  - -  BRIDGE. 

One  long,  low  reach  of  river  shore, 

The  black  tide  sweeping  in  headlong  race, 

The  swathing  fog,  and  the  stifled  roar 

Of  waves  ’gainst  the  outmost  headland’s  base. 
The  full  moon  just  a  little  waning, 

Like  an  islet  when  the  seas  run  high, 
Threat’ning  to  whelm  it — yet  maintaining 
Its  place  midway  in  the  southern  sky. 

Behind,  before,  the  bridge  extends, 

Under  it  moans  and  frets  the  tide ; 

The  mist  veil  shrouding  both  its  ends, 

The  footways  narrow,  the  wheel-tracks  wide! 
Northward  I  look,  and  from  bank  to  bank, 

A  silvery  archway  spans  the  stream, 

That  angels  might  traverse  rank  on  rank, 

As  the  ladder  beheld  in  the  Patriarch’s  dream. 


31 


Low  and  devious,  crazy  and  old, 

To  the  worn  way  on  which  I  tread, 

Simple  and  beautiful,  clear  and  bold 
Springeth  the  archway  overhead. 

Such  is  the  dusty  way  of  life, 

Under  it  moaning  the  warning  tide, 

Devious,  weary,  worn  with  strife; 

The  footways  narrow,  the  wheel-tracks  wide, 
Yet  as  we  cross  it  pace  by  pace, 

Bridging  the  stream  at  one  bold  span 
Overhead  in  the  heavens  we  trace, 

Our  life-ideal’s  majestic  plan. 

One  is  the  way  wherein  we  walk, 

With  restless  heart,  and  with  yearning  glance; 
One  is  the  theme  of  our  dreams  and  talk, 

Fleeing  onward  as  we  advance. 

One  in  the  midnight  calm  is  seen, 

When  the  voice  is  hush’d  and  the  soul  is  still ; 
And  we  ponder  and  sigh  at  the  space  between 
The  evil  we  do  and  the  good  we  will. 

One  to  the  sunlight  hot  reveals 
The  dints  of  our  trampling  hopes  and  fears ; 

The  splinter’d  scars  of  time’s  hurrying  wheels, 

Its  planks  are  moments,  its  arches  years. 

Mist  is  behind  us  and  cloud  before, 

Moaning  around  us  the  tide  of  care — 

One  day  we  cross  from  shore  to  shore, 

On  the  radiant  arch,  through  Heaven’s  own  air. 


32 


PICTURES  FROM  FAIRYLAND. 


Lone  on  the  Moorland, 
Fearless  and  gay ; 

Little  Red  Riding-Hood 
Trips  on  her  way. 

Crouched  in  the  copse-wood, 
Dreary  and  dim, 

Watches  the  gray  wolf, 
Greedy  and  grim. 

Overhead  Jenny  Wren 
Twittereth  clear — 

“  Little  Red  Riding-Hood, 
Danger  is  near.” 


33 


II. 

A  tiny  well  whose  droplets  dance, 
Beneath  a  rude  stone  arch, 

The  noontide  sunbeams  greenly  glance, 
Through  boughs  of  elm  and  larch. 

She  sets  her  brimming  pitcher  down, 

As  merrily  she  sings, 

Clad  in  her  simple  russet  gown, 

The  maid  of  sixteen  springs. 

She  sets  her  brimming  pitcher  down, 

Yet  knows  herself  too  late, 

To  ’scape  her  step-dame’s  angry  frown, 
Who  watches  at  her  gate. 

The  withered  crone  who  craves  to  drink, 
She  gives  with  sweet  good  will, 

The  pitcher  from  the  fountain’s  brink, 
That  drop  by  drop  must  fill. 

The  aged  crone  regards  her  well, 

As  dallyingly  she  sips, 

And  frames  for  thanks  a  fairy  spell, 

To  lay  upon  her  lips. 

She  nears  her  home,  her  airy  song 
Is  hushed  in  sudden  fear, 

The  chiding  word  for  absence  long 
Thrills  her  expectant  ear. 


34 


The  chiding  words  that  promise  blows, 
The  threat’ning  tongue  shrills  high  ; 

Yet,  as  upon  her  lips  of  rose, 

Trembles  the  soft  reply. 

Pure  pearls,  like  fountain  droplets  white, 
Slide  in  her  footprints  small, 

And  diamonds,  like  the  rainbow  light, 
Flung  from  the  water-fall. 

III. 

Dark  is  the  arching  chancel, 

Darker  the  nave  and  aisles, 

Ghostly  gleams  of  the  moonlight 
Checker  the  pavement  tiles. 

Dim  is  the  painted  east  window  ; 

The  midnight  is  deathly  still  ; 

The  marble  knights  and  ladies 
On  the  tombs  are  damp  and  chill. 

The  little  head  laid  on  a  hassock, 

The  little  feet  cold  and  bare, 

The  little  eyes  closed  in  slumber, 

The  little  hands  folded  for  prayer, 

A  tear  on  the  silken  eyelash 
From  the  blue-veined  eyelid  peeps, 

As  dear  little  Goody  Two  Shoes, 

Waiting  for  morning,  sleeps. 


35 


ON  THE  SHORE. 

The  print  of  a  boyish  foot  on  the  beach, 

With  a  torn  straw  hat  are  the  ripples  at  play, 

The  sand  is  heaped  in  a  mimic  fort, 

Surely  our  Eddie  has  passed  this  way ! 

Yet  just  beyond  do  the  cliffs  come  down, 

Where  the  tide  boils  in  through  the  ragged  stones. 

Path  there  is  none,  and  no  reply 

To  his  father’s  shouts  and  his  mother’s  moans. 

The  breast  of  the  breaker  is  veiled  in  foam, 

A  sheet  of  foam  like  a  tiny  shroud, 

The  mother’s  face  is  too  white  for  tears, 

And  the  father’s  passionate  grief  is  loud. 

Out  on  the  deck  of  yon  gliding  craft, 

Bearing  up  for  the  harbor  pier, 

Little  Eddie  dances  and  laughs, 

While  we  are  wreeping  desolate  here. 


